


the last of the real ones

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Superpowers, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: Steven makes a pained sound, like he’s been punched. “I can’t keep doing this to you, Andrew.”“Do what?” Andrew snaps. “Run off to some life-threatening situation for a cause bigger than all of us? Almost dying every other day?” Steven flinches, but Andrew isn’t finished. “I know—I know the whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”Or: Steven saves orphans from an organization that wants to do experiments on them. Andrew is a nurse who gets roped into all this, and will not leave even if it kills him.





	the last of the real ones

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to fall out boy's new album and this song came on, and i don't know why i just want to use the lyrics "i know the whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as i do". this was originally shyan, but for some reason, it didn't work with them. also this is definitely very self-indulgent, i debated if i should post it or not but i thought, why let it rot on my laptop, im sorry
> 
> i know safiya isn't part of buzzfeed anymore, but she reminds me of a witch because of the all black thing. i love her.

Andrew’s finished picking glass shards out of Steven’s abdomen just as the door bell rings. Steven looks up at him, alarmed, one hand—the one not broken—clutching the edge of the couch so hard that his knuckles turns white. Andrew puts his palm over his hand. “It’s the pizza,” he reminds him. “You wanted Domino’s, did you remember?”

“Oh,” Steven hums. “I guess I did.”

He’s delirious, high on morphine and exhausted beyond human limits. Andrew grits his teeth and discards his surgical gloves. When he pays for the pizza, he does it through a tiny crack between the door and the wall, and the pizza delivery man leaves without another word.

“P’zza,” Steven mumbles.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first, okay?” Andrew says, putting the pizza on the end table—he lives alone, he _used_ to live alone, before Steven starts spending the night every other day, so he didn’t see the merit of buying an actual dinner table when any table works just fine.

“No,” Steven grumbles, eyes half-closed, “I want food.”

Andrew thinks of another scenario, where Steven would look at him again with those sleepy eyes without the blood on his shirt, and Andrew would lean down to kiss him and not worry about turning on the TV to find Steven dead. “Steven, you’re covered in blood.”

“Mmm,” Steven fights to keep his eyes from shutting completely. “Okay.”

Andrew half-carries, half-supports him to the bathroom, helping him into the bathtub. Once inside, Steven pulls his knees to his chest, placing his forehead there. Andrew gently shrugs him out of his clothes, pulling the showerhead down so he can wash Steven’s blood-streaked chest. “I’m going to wash your hair.” Andrew waits for any sign of rejection from Steven, and when he gets a small nod, Andrew lets the water cascade over Steven’s matted rose-gold hair. Dried blood colors the drain red. Andrew tries not to freak out.

After, he dresses Steven in a spare sweatshirt, too big on him but fits snugly on Steven, and his clean trousers. Steven falls asleep right after Andrew feeds him, and Andrew debates between moving him to the bedroom at the risk of waking him up or letting him sleep at the risk of Steven getting a crick in his neck, then decides to put a fluffy pillow under his head and throws a blanket over him instead, like he does every night.

And then he falls asleep watching Steven breathe.

-

Steven was an orphan. He was left on a doorstep of an orphanage in Kuching with nothing but a blanket and a note that said, _We’re sorry. We love you_. That’s all Steven knows of his biological parents. At five, he was adopted by a Chinese-Indonesian couple, who then immigrated to the US two years later, right next to the house Andrew grew up in. Since then, Steven never left his life, always in Andrew’s peripheral vision, always nearby.

He wouldn’t say they were close, no. Steven was a bit of a loner, growing up in his predominantly white, predominantly racist neighborhood. He used to eat alone in the bench near the swings in middle school to avoid bullies. So many times, Andrew had wanted to sit next to him, offer him a piece of his boring lunch in exchange for a bite of Steven’s, which always smelled so rich of spices.

He didn’t talk to Steven until Chemistry Lab in high school. Titration made Andrew realize he was in no way fit for a career in the STEM field. It was always too pink, always past the equivalent point. Steven, the starboy, was assigned by the teacher to help him, and for the first time since middle school, Andrew realized Steven had physically changed. He’d grown a head taller than Andrew, shoulders broader than Andrew remembered, and he smelled amazing, despite having been inside the lab for more than an hour. Andrew watched Steven swing the Erlenmeyer flask gingerly under the graduated glass tube, and turned the knob to the left just in time to see the solution inside the flask turn into a faint pink color.

“See?” Steven had said. “That easy.”

But Andrew had not been paying attention.

Steven was still the same shy, loner Steven in middle school, though. Kept to himself, ate lunch alone, until Ashly, who was once Andrew’s not-girlfriend and now dating Chantel (long story), nudged him hard enough to land on the seat next to Steven.

“Chemistry guy,” Steven had said, eyes wide. Andrew was too busy cursing Ashly inside his head to notice the blush that crept up his cheeks.

“Yes, I guess that’s me,” Andrew had replied. “I… have a question.”

“Shoot,” Steven had said.

“What is, um, the—” Andrew had not prepared a question. “—the thing. With the, pH.”

Even though Andrew was completely bullshitting it, Steven seemed to understand him. Steven offered to tutor him, which Andrew accepted, very nonchalantly, and late afternoon studying in the library turned into visiting each other’s houses, playing the Nintendo Wii until late at night. They had an easy friendship. Steven was, as it turned out, very cheerful—more than Andrew anticipated, but that trait grew on him.

Until prom night.

-

Steven struggles to open his eyes. Sleep hangs on his eyelids like two dumbbells, intent on keeping him asleep as long as they could. Eventually, the sun becomes too bright for him to ignore, and he opens his eyes. The first thing he registers is the dull thud of pain on the side of his abdomen. He puts his palm over it, grimacing when he feels harsh ridges of scar tissue forming there. Well, he thinks, better than bleeding out in some alley.

He heals faster than most. But it doesn’t mean that he can just leave his wounds unattended; he is not immune to infection of blood loss—a lesson he’s had to learn the hard way.

“’Drew?” he mumbles, scanning the room for a mop of dirty blonde hair. He frowns when he finds the apartment empty and glances up at the clock. _Oh._ It’s almost two o’clock, Andrew must’ve gone to work. Gingerly—he heals faster, but even he cannot escape pain—he trudges over to the kitchen, hoping to find something to fill his stomach, because boy, is he starving. He finds a post-it note stuck on the fridge, and takes it off to read it. Reading glasses. They must’ve been crushed somewhere last night.

_Heat up the pizza. Will be home early. Don’t even try to sneak out._

Steven smiles inwardly. Heaven knows why Andrew keeps taking care of him. A part of him wasn’t sure if Andrew was the right person to go to, all those months ago. That part of him is a complete idiot.

His mind wanders, as it tends to be, and he thinks about last night. The information Nygaard has given him is faulty; while it’s true that the container boxes host the stolen children, it is also incredibly armed. Three times the men that Nygaard predicted were present, and Steven barely walked out with his life.

The children are safe now. That’s what matters.

After washing the dishes—a token of gratitude for Andrew’s medical assistance—Steven goes out to take a walk in the park. He’s wearing Andrew’s coat, a little too small on him, but will do just enough against the spring weather. He takes a seat on the only empty bench. People-watching is his favorite down-time; he can let his mind wander as far as he wants without getting lost.

No one would usually bother him. He imagines he must look a little peculiar: rose-gold hair and too long limbs, in a coat too small to fit him, staring at nothing in particular.

Today is different.

A woman clad in an all-black ensemble approaches him, her heels click-clacking against the hard asphalt, like she’s going to break it down. She wears a pair of eccentric sunglasses and her lips are painted brown. Steven already knows who it is.

“You almost got me killed,” Steven says as soon as she sits down.

“Our resources were running low,” Nygaard answers. Her face stays impassive; though behind those shades, she may as well be laughing at him. “It was a mistake on our part. We can admit that.”

“A little sorry would be appreciated,” Steven grunts, sagging against the bench. Safiya is starting to intimidate him, even when he, technically, has a leverage on him. He hates it, which he supposes is what makes her the organization’s best intel.

Safiya scoffs, like apologies are beneath her. “You need to stop seeing him.”

“I know,” Steven nods sagely. “It’s just—the medics take such a long time to arrive on the scene. I could’ve died.”

“You have a regenerative healing factor, you will not die from something like glass shards,” Nygaard retorts. “You need to stop mixing business with pleasure.”

Against his will, Steven feels his cheeks warm. “It’s really not like that.”

“Huh,” Nygaard lowers her glasses. Her eyes, behind those glasses, glimmer like diamonds. The seer quickly pushes it up the bridge of her nose. “Does he know that?”

Steven stiffens up. “What do you mean—”

But Safiya’s already gone.

-

When Steven’s mind wanders, it tends to arrive on prom night. For all the wrong reasons.

He wishes that the memory of Andrew’s hands on his hips and the way he looked in the tux were the only things he remembers. He wants so badly to be reminiscing on prom night and remembering only how giddy he felt when the limo their friends had rented arrived on his doorstep, how he sang badly and way too loudly to the pop songs playing on the radio, how Chantel had, somehow, found a way to spike the fruit punch with alcohol, and how Andrew had leaned it a little too close under the disco lights as the DJ played a slow song.

“So, MIT,” Andrew had said, lips so close that if Steven had been a little braver, he could’ve known how they tasted.

“Yeah,” Steven had licked his lips.

“That’s a long way,” Andrew had said.

“I could always visit,” Steven had reassured him, “Or you could visit.”

Andrew had smiled. And then, as if he just realized something terribly scary, he looked up at Steven. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he had started. Steven remembers how his chest felt tight, how his mind went crazy with all the possibilities. Is he going to tell me what I think he’s going to tell me?

“Steven, I—”

Steven never found out what the rest of Andrew’s sentence was. He felt the roof give out before he registered what had happened—an explosion, so loud, that all he could hear was silence for a few heartbeats, then a painful ringing in his ears. The screams came next, growing louder as more explosions were heard, and Steven’s first thought was, Andrew.

Instincts kicked in, and he grabbed Andrew’s arm, leading him out of the rubble. He didn’t want to remember what he saw, didn’t want to remember the blood-spattered floor, and the music that was still playing. All he wanted was to get Andrew to safety.

Chantel and Ashly were already in the assembly point, and the girls ran towards them once they saw each other. Chantel had a streak of blood running down her forehead, and she was crying as she hugged them both.

“Thank God you were safe,” Chantel started babbling, “I saw—they’re _crunched_ , underneath the slab, I was just talking to them, Steven—”

“I know, I know,” Andrew held Chantel closer. “The police are coming, they’re going to be saved, I promise.”

“I can’t,” Ashly sobbed, “I can’t reach 911.”

“They’re coming, I promise you,” Andrew soothed her. The shock was still in his eyes, Steven could see it, but he was fighting so hard to be brave for Chantel and Ashly, even though his hands were shaking as he embraced the two girls.

“They’re still there,” Chantel cried, “They’re trapped, please, we have to help them—”

And then it was as if something clicked inside Steven. He turned to Chantel, cupping her face in his hands, “Chantel, can you tell me where they are?”

“S-somewhere near the entrance,” Chantel said. “There’s—five of them, there’s Ella, Kelsey, Evan, Ryan, Zack—”

“Okay,” Steven gave her hand a squeeze. “Can you help Ashly, Chantel?”

“Yeah,” Chantel nodded.

“Do you still have your phone?” Steven said. Chantel’s uncle was the sheriff of the town, he remembered. Chantel nodded, her lips trembling. “Good. Call your uncle. Let him know that you’re safe, but that we need them here, now. Can you do that?” Again, Chantel nodded.

Andrew looked at him. “Steven,” he called, his voice shaking, “What are you going to do?”

Steven looked at him, and wished terribly for that bravery to tell him that he loved Andrew. “I’m going to do what I can,” he said, and without another look, ran inside the collapsing hall. 

It would be the last time he saw Andrew, until ten years later.

-

Andrew finds Steven passed out on his couch when he, finally, after a grueling twelve-hour shift at the hospital, gets home. Steven’s wearing his coat, too small on his gangly frame, and Andrew finds himself smiling softly at the scene. Not for the first time, he imagines a different scenario—one just like this, without all the vigilante stuff attached to it.

“Steven,” he says. “Wake up, sleepy head.”

Slowly, Steven opens his eyes. “Oh,” he mumbles, “I fell asleep again.”

“Hey, it’s okay, you needed it,” Andrew pats his hair. “But you need to eat, buddy. Here, I brought you some soup.”

After a little more coaxing, Andrew manages to get Steven to eat dinner. He sits next to Steven on the couch and watches some cooking videos on Youtube in silence. It’s a comfortable kind of silence, so Andrew lets himself drown in it, reveling in the smell of Steven, alive and unhurt, next to him. He might not get to tomorrow.

“Andrew.”

“Yeah?”

Steven looks straight at the screen. The lady host is chopping up onions and trying not to cry. “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

Andrew blinks. “Why?”

“What I do, it’s—it can hurt you,” Steven says. He’s still not looking at Andrew.

Andrew tightens his fist. His chest feels heavy. “I’m not hurt.”

“Not yet,” Steven puts down his half-eaten bowl of soup. Finally, he looks at Andrew, but Andrew can’t find the strength to look back. “I—I want to thank you, for everything you do for me. Everything you did for me. You didn’t have to, but you took me in, and every night I stumbled in, bleeding all over your couch, you took me in without question.”

 _Then stay. Please._ “I can take care of myself, Steven.”

“I know,” Steven says. “But what I’m fighting against—it’s not human, Drew.” A beat. “ _I’m_ not human.”

Andrew is suddenly back on the school premises, all of ten years ago, watching Steven run inside the collapsing hall. Andrew is eighteen and running after Steven, watching, in equal parts horror and fascination, as Steven lifted up slabs of concrete like they weighed nothing, and saved their friends.

Steven may not be human, he may be enhanced beyond human limits, but he bleeds like one. And that scares Andrew.

_There is an organization out there who purposefully kidnaps orphans to do awful experiments on them, Andrew. It’s terrible, and I want to save them. I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you._

“I’m not—I’m not going to let you leave,” Andrew says, because he’s an only child and he’s always been selfish. “I know—I know you think I’m doing you a favor, or something, but I want to take care of you.”

Steven makes a pained sound, like he’s been punched. “I can’t keep doing this to you, Andrew.”

“Do what?” Andrew snaps. “Run off to some life-threatening situation for a cause bigger than all of us? Almost dying every other day?” Steven flinches, but Andrew isn’t finished. “I know—I know the whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”

“What are you getting out of this—” Steven gestures to the space between them, hanging so vulnerable. “Whatever this is?”

“I get to know you’re safe,” Andrew says. “In my own hands. Because—” _I can’t take another ten years of you disappearing, I can’t lose you again, I can’t let you get hurt again, I just want you safe._ “Because I love you, I always have, and I want to be by your side.”

“Andrew—”

“So don’t—don’t push me away,” Andrew looks up. “Don’t leave.”

“I can’t risk you,” Steven says.

“I don’t—I don’t care if you don’t feel the same, I just want you to be safe,” Andrew presses. “If you won’t take that risk, I—I will.”

Steven stares at him, his eyes a myriad of emotions than Andrew can’t begin to interpret, but when his mouth meets Andrew’s, he at least knows one thing: Steven feels the same. Andrew surges up into Steven’s arms and puts his arms around Steven’s neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything he’s ever felt into the kiss. He hopes Steven gets it: the fear eighteen-year-old Andrew felt when Steven was no where to be found in the rubble, the denial Andrew went through until he was twenty, the desperation of wanting to see him again, and finally seeing him, on his doorstep, hurt but alive, _still alive_. The ten years Andrew spent never really believing Steven had died, and the night all that belief paid off. He is not going to let Steven go because some bad guys who spit fire or manipulate minds can hurt him—Andrew’s suffered much worse than that.

“I need, I need,” Steven babbles, peppering kisses on Andrew’s face, neck, mouth. “I _need_ you.”

Everything about their touch feels desperate. Andrew has never understood the distinction between making love and fucking, but he understands now, as he lays Steven down and push into him. After, they sleep, tangled in each other, and Andrew promises himself he will not fall asleep. He wants to spend every hour like this, Steven in his arms, his back pressed against Andrew’s chest, alive and safe. Steven’s clutching his hand like a lifeline, and Andrew keeps kissing the back of his neck, his shoulders, the top of his hair, just so he can convince himself that this is real. This is Steven, as real as he gets.

But sleep eventually claims him, and he settles against Steven’s back, knowing full well he will wake up like this in the morning.

-

(He doesn’t.)


End file.
